


The Easy Way

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: After averting Armageddon, Aziraphale returns to his bookshop, while Crowley is looking for something to do with his time.  When Aziraphale suggests he drive him to Penzance to look for a rare book, he agrees, an outing that leads to something more than just a fun time.  Lightweight, romantic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 91





	The Easy Way

The Easy Way

Things had, overall, returned to something like normal, as far as normal goes for an angel and a demon who lived as humans on Earth. In fact, things were even better than normal, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, because his and Crowley’s former bosses were apparently leaving them both alone.

“No one’s sending me temptations to perform anymore,” Crowley told him one pleasant sunny day when they met, as usual, in St. James’ Park.

“And I haven’t received a request for a blessing, not to mention an entire miracle.” It was as if the Powers of Heaven and Hell had forgotten, or had conveniently decided to forget, that either of them were still here.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Crowley said. “Bit like being retired, in a way.”

“Yes. I mean, after six thousand years, an angel ought to be able to retire, I should think.”

“Of course, you’ve got your bookshop to run.”

Aziraphale loved his shop. He lived for his books, and for all of the cozy comforts of the place – the polished old wood, the antique furnishings, and the lovely little flat upstairs. Perfection in every detail.

“So I am not, then, I suppose, truly retired. But then, one has to do _something_ with one’s time. What have you been up to lately?”

“Nothing.” Crowley’s tone turned bitter. “What, exactly, am I supposed to be doing?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had never thought of that before. Crowley was a demon. He went about tempting people and fomenting discord. That’s what he did. Only he didn’t, not anymore. “Oh, dear.”

“Fine thing for you to have a bookshop. What have I got? A big modern flat and a perfect car.”

Aziraphale thought back over the many centuries of their friendship. He realized that he couldn’t remember Crowley showing any interest in any hobby whatsoever, unless you counted drinking, or terrorizing houseplants. And he’d even given up the latter after Aziraphale asked him nicely to please stop.

Well, and there was also the car. Crowley did love that Bentley beyond reason.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, you enjoy driving. You could go on a road trip.”

“Really? That’s the best idea you’ve got?” Crowley snorted in derision.

“Don’t be like that. I am trying to be helpful.” Honestly. Being Crowley’s best friend was the best thing in the world, though it could be rather hard work. Then he had a sudden flash of a memory, and snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Horses!”

Crowley gave him a blank look. “Horses? I’m not _ever_ riding one of those great bumpy beasts again.”

“No, no, not riding. Betting. Remember how you dragged me to Ascot in 1910? You had a jolly good time there, and won pots of money.”

“Oh, yeah. That was fun. I cheated, of course.”

Aziraphale felt crushed. “You didn’t.”

“I _did_. It’s no fun to gamble if you don’t win.”

“But that’s not fair. It’s much more fun to try doing things the way humans do, if you ask me.”

“Like your attempts at stage magic, you mean?” Crowley grinned.

“Don’t mock. It’s not fun if you make things too easy for yourself. That’s your trouble in a nutshell. You want everything to be easy. But if you _work_ at something, without resorting to miracles, you’ll feel a greater sense of accomplishment. You ought to try it sometime.” He paused. “I could teach you how to do magic tricks.” He smiled hopefully.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. It will give you something to do.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“Fine. So all you’re going to do is drink and drive around then?” He couldn’t allow Crowley to do anything of the sort. His friend clearly needed an occupation. But what? If only there were something they could do together. And then the answer dawned on him. So simple. He should have suggested it decades ago. “I’ve got it!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I’m all ears.”

“Book hunting!”

Crowley raised the other eyebrow. “Come again? You want me to shoot books?”

“Of course I don’t want you to shoot books. What sort of idiotic question is that?”

Crowley grinned. “ _Got_ you!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. His friend did enjoy teasing him. “Yes, well, I’m quite serious. There are books that I deeply want to possess, books that are rare and hard to come by, but which I get hints of now and then. Earlier this week, in fact, I got a line from one of my agents—“

“One of your what?”

“Agents.” Had he never told Crowley before about his network of human book scouts? Possibly not. “One of them, woman in Penzance, Mrs. McGurdy, keeps an eye and ear out for news of the books on my most-wanted list. She told me there’s an estate sale there day after tomorrow, and the late owner was rumored to have a copy of Bedivere Gallifraunt’s _Book of Future Wisdom_. I want it.”

“So go and get it.”

“Yes, well, it’s not that simple. The book isn’t actually listed in the sale catalogue. None of the library books are. But Mrs. McGurdy is friends with the estate housekeeper, who claims to have seen it there. The sale takes place in the manor itself – it’s the first chance for anyone to…well…to take a look, as it were.”

Crowley smiled. “You mean, for someone to casually wander off to the library and abscond with the book.” He made a _tsk-tsk_ sound and waggled a finger in Aziraphale’s face. “ _Bad_ angel.”

“No one will know or care. I checked. The sole heir is a foul young man from Birmingham who races motorcycles. He won’t care about _any_ of the books.”

“So what am I supposed to do while you’re off angelically depriving the young master of his heirloom? Keep watch?”

“Yes. And of course, you could drive me there so I won’t need to take the train. _If_ you promise not to exceed the speed limit.”

“You know, sometimes you can be a bit fussy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _Fussy_.” Crowley leaned over to pluck an errant bit of leaf from Aziraphale’s coat collar.

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am, a bit.”

“Just a bit.” Crowley stood and stretched. “So, when are we heading out on this little road trip?”

#

“Why don’t you simply miracle yourself inside the manor library, magically locate the book, and miracle it away?”

Aziraphale sighed. They were nearing Penzance, having driven most of the day, with Crowley going _below_ the speed limit much of the time. He had the distinct impression Crowley did it on purpose to annoy him.

A little tetchily, he said, “You don’t understand the value of effort at all, do you? I told you, _real_ magic is too easy. There’s nothing to it, and it’s not at all satisfying to snap your fingers to get everything you want.”

“No, I’m supposed to _work_ at it,” Crowley replied. “I’m supposed to make things challenging and achieve a sense of accomplishment and blah blah blah.” He snorted in derision. “I’ve got better things to do, Angel.”

“Yes, except that apparently you _don’t_ have anything better to do, or you wouldn’t be driving me to Penzance.”

This remark was met with a stony silence, followed by a sudden increase in the car’s speed. Crowley drove faster and faster and was nearly about to break the speed limit when he suddenly slowed. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “ _Damn_.”

“What?”

“I made a promise.”

“You did.” Aziraphale felt oddly touched that Crowley would actually honor it, for his sake. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley drove in silence for a few minutes before letting out a big sigh. “Damn, damn, _damn_.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “What is it now?”

“You were right. I hate it when you’re right.”

“Oh. You mean, about not having anything better to do? But you said it yourself, my dear fellow, back in London. You were bored. That’s why we’re _here_.” Honestly, sometimes – well, truthfully, most of the time – Aziraphale had no idea how Crowley’s mind worked.

“Doesn’t mean I want to go about doing things the hard way,” Crowley said. “The _human_ way. Wouldn’t be able to do _this_ , for one thing.” At which he pointed a finger at the near empty fuel gauge, which slowly, magically, demonically refilled.

“I suppose that _is_ handy.” Aziraphale smiled. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to drive?”

Crowley let out a noise halfway between a snort and a guffaw. “I was not thinking clearly on _that_ day.” He grinned. “1956, thirty years after I bought her.” He stroked the dashboard affectionately.

“A lovely summer day, as I recall. You’d been chiding me about not moving ahead with the times.”

“You were wearing that suit from Victoria’s reign. You still are.”

“I like the style.” Aziraphale lovingly fingered his jacket lapel.

“I didn’t think it wise to stand out. Much safer to blend in with the humans.”

Aziraphale felt pleased at the thought. Crowley always did have a way of looking out for his best interests.

“Thought you ought to drive a car,” Crowley said. “They’d been around for decades, and there you were, going about on trains and buses and in taxicabs. Stupid.”

“Yes, and we saw how well _that_ idea played out.”

Crowley chuckled. “Would have been easier to teach a dolphin to play the piano.”

They had gone far out of town that balmy day, Crowley driving them to an abandoned air base not unlike the one at Tadfield. With plenty of open roadways to practice on, and with no one else about, it should have been simple.

Except that Aziraphale couldn’t tell the gas pedal from the clutch pedal from the brakes. He nearly put the precious Bentley into a huge ditch, and next he’d almost run it into the side of a building. At which point Crowley admitted defeat.

_“Automobiles are far too sensitive,” Aziraphale had told him back then. “And far too complicated. Even if I did manage to drive one safely, there is still the added problem of maintenance. I wouldn’t even know how to supply it with…with whatever fuel it runs on.”_

_“Petrol,” Crowley had replied impatiently. “They call it petrol, and it’s been around long enough for you to learn that. Stop living in the past, Angel. The present day isn’t that difficult to deal with.”_

_“I beg to differ.”_

_“Fine. I’ll prove it.” With that, he got behind the wheel and drove them to the nearest town, where he pulled into a garage._

_“I’ll show you how easy it is.” Crowley made him get out. “_ You _are going to fill the tank yourself.”_

_“Don’t they have servants for that sort of thing?” Aziraphale protested. “Look, there’s one coming now.”_

_Crowley snapped his fingers, and the garage worker froze in place. “Don’t need him. It’s simple – I’ve watched humans doing it. Here, I’ll show you – just take this cap off here, and then grab this pump handle here, and then—“_

_And then Crowley discovered, after several mishaps, that he didn’t, in fact, know how to fill his car’s tank after all._

_Aziraphale had calmly gotten back inside the car as Crowley wrestled with a flailing hose that spewed petrol all over the place. A minute later, Crowley was back behind the wheel._

_As he drove away from the garage, Aziraphale glanced behind them to see the attendant stand up, scratching his head. The spill was gone, all looked normal. He turned back to look at Crowley. He cleared his throat._

_“_ Not _one word, Angel.”_

_Aziraphale merely smiled and maintained a perfect silence all the way home._

Now, here on the outskirts of Penzance, Aziraphale smiled again, quietly enjoying the memory of that day.

“Penzance coming up,” Crowley said. “Where am I going then?”

“The Queens Hotel on the western Promenade. I stayed there once in, I believe, 1876. Lovely place.”

“1876. Great. How did you book it, by telegraph?”

“Don’t be absurd. They have modern communications.”

“Better have a private bath.”

Aziraphale frowned. What did he want that for? They were spiritual beings, albeit in human form, but their human forms weren’t _actual_ humans. Even though they could will themselves to consume food, and thank goodness for that pleasure, or to drink, or to sleep, they certainly had no need to do so, nor to perform any other human bodily functions.

“I like a nice soak in a tub once in a while,” Crowley added. He grinned. “As long as it isn’t filled with holy water.”

Aziraphale shivered. Not a nice image at all. “I took the best suite. It has a bath.” He enjoyed fine things, and money was no object. They could conjure it up whenever needed.

They entered the town and located the hotel, where a parking space right in front magically appeared.

“Was that too easy for you?” Crowley asked. “Would you prefer I drive around for an hour looking for a place to park?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I always advise moderation in all things.” Trying to do things the hard, human way was often satisfying, but even Aziraphale had to admit that many tasks were simply too mundane or too irritatingly complex to deal with, and required a bit of magical handling.

Such as filling a car with petrol.

#

The suite was large and airy with high ceilings, windows that opened to a balcony looking out to the bay, and antique furnishings much to Aziraphale’s tastes. He was especially impressed by the huge four-poster bed.

Crowley stared at it. “There’s only one bed.”

“And your point is?” They didn’t need to sleep. They could if they wanted to, in order to fit in with human patterns, but they didn’t _have_ to.

“I’ve got used to having a good long kip at night. If I stay awake all the time, my mind goes all funny.”

True, Aziraphale had experienced a similar sensation, and he did enjoy naps. “Very well. Have a kip tonight.”

“What if you want one too?”

Aziraphale figured around four people could fit on that bed. “It has oodles of room. To the best of my knowledge, I do not thrash about in my sleep.”

Crowley sighed. “Fine. Whatever. When are we going to this estate place manor thingy?”

“First thing in the morning, an hour or so before the official sale, to see if they’ll let us in for a sneak preview.”

“Why not just wait for the sale, when you _know_ you can get inside?”

“It’s part of the fun,” Aziraphale explained. “Coming up with a good plan for getting inside the manor before everyone else, and a clever plan for getting inside the library. It’s all part of the game.”

“And it’s pointless. You are doing things in a complicated way for no good reason.”

Aziraphale ignored him. He had something more important on his mind. It was dinner time. “The hotel restaurant gets rave reviews for its filet mignon. Shall we dine?”

#

At nine the following morning they stood on the wide porch of Truecott Manor, an early nineteenth-century brick mansion with three stories and two wings. Aziraphale lifted an ornate door knocker and let it fall.

A minute or so later the tall oak door slowly swung open from the inside. A butler stood there. “The sale does not commence until ten, gentlemen. Good day.”

He started to shut the door, until Crowley put his foot in the way. “We’re not here for the sale.”

“No, sir?”

“No. We’re here about the books.”

Aziraphale gave him a look. What was Crowley playing at? _He_ was the one who was supposed to come up with a ploy for getting inside, one he’d worked on for hours last night.

“Ah,” the butler replied, “are you the gentleman who phoned yesterday evening? Mr. Azzyfall?”

“A. Z. Fell," Crowley corrected. He nodded towards his companion. “Finest book appraiser in all of England.”

“Perfect. Do come in.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “What did you _do_?”

“Simple,” Crowley said as they followed the butler through an entrance way, then down a long hallway. “I offered your services for their book collection. They hadn’t got round to it yet, which is why the library wasn’t part of the sale. They were delighted to learn that you happened to be in the area.”

“The finest appraiser in all of England?”

“Lucky to get you, if you ask me.”

The butler opened a door and led them inside a large room lined floor to ceiling and wall to wall with bookcases. An old-fashioned desk stood in the center, with a pair of leather armchairs and a chaise spread round it.

“Mr. Truecott, the current heir, has agreed to your generous terms,” the butler said. He cleared his throat. “However, my understanding was that the fee negotiated covered only Mr. Fell’s services. There was no mention of an assistant.”

Up to this point, Aziraphale had been feeling rather irked by Crowley’s presumption in stripping away all the fun of his little caper. At the butler’s pronouncement, however, an idea occurred to him, one which gave him a bit of payback.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “This _is_ my assistant, and he is here to take all of my notes, which speeds up the process, thus keeping the fee low. Naturally, that fee is set, and covers the two of us.”

“Very good, sir. I shall leave you to your task, then.” He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Crowley sank down into one of the armchairs. “ _Notes?_ ”

“Of all the titles and their condition, of course.”

Crowley gazed slowly around the room. “ _All_ of them?”

“I’m told there are twenty thousand volumes. Did you bring paper and a pen, my dear fellow?” Aziraphale felt best pleased. Crowley would have to do some actual work for once.

“No, I did not.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and a laptop appeared on top of the desk.

“Won’t make it any easier,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll still need to type the notes in.”

“That could take _days_.”

“I imagine it will. Shall we get started?”

#

Two hours later Aziraphale felt peckish, and decided it was time to stop for a spot of lunch. He’d gotten through two entire bookcases, dictating the information on each title to Crowley, who sprawled on the chaise with the laptop, appropriately enough, on his lap.

During all that time Aziraphale had his back to Crowley as he worked, but he heard the tapping of the keys so he believed Crowley was actually doing the work. However, when he turned round after dictating the last title, it was in time to catch Crowley waving a hand over the keyboard, whose keys tapped along all by themselves.

“You’ve been cheating!”

“What did you expect?” Crowley tossed the laptop onto the desk. “Enough.” He stood and stretched. “We’re done here.”

“But the appraisal isn’t finished.” Aziraphale had been enjoying going through the books. He had found a number of excellent works that he would love to add to his collection.

“I regret thinking that up. Let’s just find your one special prophecy book and get out of here.” Crowley walked over to a bookcase and started scanning the spines.

Aziraphale sighed. He chose a case at the opposite end and began searching for the book.

“Why do you want it, anyway?” Crowley asked.

“To add to my collection, obviously.”

“Yes, yes, but why do you still bother with that? We’ve just survived the biggest prophecy in the history of the world. What more do you need?”

Aziraphale considered. It was a valid question. He’d been collecting books on prophecy for so long, he supposed he simply didn’t know how to stop. “It’s what I do.”

“Sounds boring, and irrelevant.”

“I have other collections.” Aziraphale felt miffed. “It’s not the _only_ thing I do. There are my cookbooks and related books about food, and I have an excellent selection of works on early nineteenth-century fashion.”

“Fascinating. Oh, hey – what’s the title of that book? Future something wisdom?”

“Bedivere Gallifraunt’s Book of Future Wisdom. You found it?”

Crowley hauled a large tome from the shelves. “Heavy bugger.”

Aziraphale trotted over eagerly, taking the book to the desk to examine it more closely. He pulled a pair of white gloves from his pocket and drew them on before opening it. “Ah. Beautiful condition. Printed in 1739.”

Crowley stood close beside him. “Anything about us in there?”

“What? Why should there be?”

“Agnes Nutter had a prophecy for us. You never know. It’s the only one I’d care about – what happens to us.”

“Really?” Aziraphale thought that was rather touching. “I’m hoping nothing at all happens to us, not for a very long time.”

“That could get boring, don’t you think? Here you’ve been trying to get me to do stuff, find an occupation, hobby, what have you, and now you’re all right with a whole lot of nothing?”

“I meant nothing _big_. Like an apocalypse.”

“Point taken. Can do without another one of those. Far too terrifying.”

Aziraphale knew, somehow, that Crowley didn’t mean “terrifying” as in losing the Earth, but terrifying because of almost losing each other. And then he was taken completely by surprise the next moment, when Crowley put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. You know, getting us in here so easily. I shouldn’t have taken away your fun.”

Aziraphale stood as still as possible, savoring the contact. Obviously, he and Crowley loved each other. After six thousand years, it could hardly be otherwise. They never said it, yet they expressed it, over and over. “Apology accepted.”

“And I can tell you’re having even more fun looking through these blasted books. We can keep going, if you like.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale looked around the bookshelves. Appraising them the proper way – the human way – would take days of effort. He smiled. “I have an idea.” He waved his hand over the room, bookcase by bookcase, and then flicked his fingers at the laptop.

The database Crowley had left open began magically filling with information on all of the books. In less than a minute, the process was complete.

“I’ll look over it later,” he said. “I want to make an offer on at least some of the collection. Though I will spirit this one book away today as a special treat.”

Crowley dropped his hand at last and stepped back. He raised an eyebrow. “You took the easy way – no fair!”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “I think, my dear fellow, that I don’t need to try changing a single thing about you. Go on doing things with magic. My methods don’t need to be your methods. If you are truly bored, though, why don’t you simply come to the bookshop every day to keep me company while I work?”

Up until now, they’d typically met regularly, often every day, but just for a chat in the park or for a spot of lunch or a drink.

Crowley’s brow furrowed a little. “Do you really want me there? Thought I’d be in the way.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Never in life.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah. Might work.”

“Of course it will work. Unless we get tired of each other, and after six thousand years, that hardly seems likely, does it?”

Crowley grinned. “Could I be your _assistant_?”

“Now, now, don’t be absurd. You don’t know a thing about books.”

“True. Oh, well. Maybe there’s time yet for me to learn.”

“Really?” Aziraphale beamed. “You’d do that?” Crowley taking an interest in books – surely that would be a real miracle. “Could take some genuine effort, you know.”

Crowley shrugged. “That’s all right.” He smiled. “A retired demon has to start over again someplace, right?” He closed down the laptop. “Isn’t it time for lunch?”

#

They returned to Penzance and ate at a pleasant little café on the waterfront. Then they took a stroll along the wide promenade.

As they walked in companionable silence, Aziraphale thought back to the previous night. They had both decided to get some sleep. After choosing which side of the bed he wanted, Aziraphale had produced his favorite Victorian nightshirt, which had amused Crowley no end.

“You look like Ebenezer Scrooge in that get up. All you need is a nightcap.”

“And how would _you_ know what a Dickensian character looks like when you never crack open a book?”

“Saw a film once. Much quicker than reading.”

“Well, I find it quite comfortable.” Aziraphale climbed into bed and snuggled beneath the blanket. “What do you wear to bed, then?”

Crowley grinned. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Ah. I might have guessed.”

Crowley turned off the light before sliding into bed. “Satin sheets, that’s fancy. Bet you can’t feel them under all that gear you’re wearing.”

“Don’t be annoying. My hands aren’t covered. The sheets feel perfectly nice.”

“They do, indeed. _All_ over.”

“Have I ever mentioned how vexing you can be?”

“More than once. Have I ever mentioned how insufferable _you_ can be?”

“Nonsense. Angels are very likable beings.”

“ _I_ was an angel once.”

“And as you once pointed out,” Aziraphale said, “that was a long time ago.”

“ _You_ like me,” Crowley replied.

“Only when you are not being vexing. Now please be quiet and go to sleep.”

“All right, all right.”

And he had, instantly. Aziraphale slept too, quite soundly. He didn’t wake until dawn. When he opened his eyes, he slowly realized there was a pressure against his back. He had, in fact, shifted position sometime during the night, more to the center of the bed. And Crowley had also moved closer in, and they lay right next to each other, back to back.

Over six millennia, not once had Aziraphale had cause to be in a bed with anyone, human or otherwise. What an odd sensation. Angels were not intended to be physical beings. It felt rather comforting, he thought. Perhaps he should have tried it sooner, as he’d tried other physical activities such as eating and drinking. All quite pleasant, and all very human. People had certainly created some habits worth cultivating.

Crowley yawned then, and rolled over, breaking the contact.

Aziraphale rolled away as well. Neither of them said anything about it after they rose that morning.

“When do you want to go home?” Crowley asked, snapping Aziraphale out of his reverie.

It was quite a beautiful place, Penzance, with its steep, winding streets of old buildings, its big park, the seaside promenade, and he enjoyed seeing the flowers everywhere. He’d even seen palm trees. Quite a nice respite from the London metropolis.

Yet he already missed his beloved bookshop.

“Why don’t we return to the manor this afternoon, and I’ll give the completed appraisal over, and plant a tiny false memory to make the butler believe we came three days ago. Then he won’t question how long – or rather, how short a time it took.”

“What about the books you want to buy?”

“I’ll look over the information later. I can contact the estate from London. That way we can head back first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Suits me fine.”

They strolled on down the promenade, totally relaxed in each other’s company.

#

That night, having started out sleeping on the far side of the bed as before, Aziraphale woke some hours later to find he had shifted over again towards the middle, and that Crowley had done the same.

This time Aziraphale lay on his back, and Crowley lay on his side facing towards him, so close that his head wound up on Aziraphale’s pillow, nestled in the crook of his shoulder. And Crowley had flung an arm across Aziraphale’s chest.

He didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to move. Instead, he put his own arm on top of Crowley’s.

He felt his companion stir ever so slightly.

“Crowley?” he whispered, “are you awake?”

“Um-hm.”

“Ah.” So he knew about the arm, and hadn’t turned away. How very right that felt.

Then Crowley raised his head briefly, just long enough to kiss the top of Aziraphale’s forehead before nestling down again. “You’re my best friend,” he said softly. “And I do love you.”

Aziraphale felt a warm glow spread over and through him. “I suppose you already know that I have loved you for a very long time.”

“Of course I do. Now go back to sleep.”

“All right.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s forehead. “Good night.”

As he drifted down into slumber once more, Aziraphale wondered if an angel and a demon loving each other had ever been a part of the Great Plan, or even the Ineffable Plan.

Then again, he supposed it must have been.

###


End file.
